


Nobody Really Knows

by Big_Diesel



Series: The Anthology of Loud House Collection [6]
Category: The Loud House (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet, Brother-Sister Relationships, Child Murder, Detectives, Dismemberment, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Issues, Femdom, Forced Relationship, Healing, Heaven, Heavy Angst, High School, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Investigations, Korean-American Character, Memorials, Missing Persons, Murder, Murderers, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Platonic Relationships, Police, Romance, Serial Killers, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Love, Siblings, Slice of Life, Stabbing, Suspense, Teenage Drama, Wakes & Funerals, Yandere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 13:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12888633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Big_Diesel/pseuds/Big_Diesel
Summary: "When all said and done, I embraced death in its wholesome arms. Less than an hour after walking away from school for the upcoming weekend in December, I was murdered. Shocking, but truthfully told, I didn't expect death accompanying me in my plans. I didn't remember penciling it in with my skateboarding with Lynn. I didn't remember scribbling it over hanging out at the arcade with Ronnie Anne and Clyde. I don't recall leaving it in a text before making arrangements of spending family night that Sunday with my family. I didn't recall any of that to happen. Alas, when all said and done, I embraced death in its wholesome arms; taking away any other thing to worry, to protest, to excite, to plan. Anything!"This mesmerizing tale tells the story of Lincoln and the day he was brutally murdered by the hands of his neighbor. Now, he speaks from the grave to discuss the events following his death. Like a guardian angel, he watches his family and friends coping with the struggles of moving on. Watch as the others go through the process of family, love, healing, regret, and forgiveness. [AU]





	1. Cold

When all said and done, I embraced death in its wholesome arms. Less than an hour after walking away from school for the upcoming weekend in December, I was murdered. Shocking, but truthfully told, I didn't expect death accompanying me in my plans. I didn't remember penciling it in with my skateboarding with Lynn. I didn't remember scribbling it over hanging out at the arcade with Ronnie Anne and Clyde. I don't recall leaving it in a text before making arrangements of spending family night that Sunday with my family. I didn't recall any of that to happen. Alas, when all said and done, I embraced death in its wholesome arms; taking away any other thing to worry, to protest, to excite, to plan. Anything!

It happened the weekend before Lucy's birthday. She was turning thirteen that following Monday. I share a smile to myself. Thirteen, just an agile age of budding maturity. It wasn't too long ago when I was looking forward to those numbers. The transition into becoming a teenager. Lucy wouldn't stop gripping about her new age. She wanted that day, the age to be such a robust, transcendental era of her own version of a renaissance. It was very unfortunate to miss it.

My killer made arrangements for me. Thirteen shots to the chest. Each jab my killer took lessen my resistance, my prowess, my stronghold, my everything. I faded away into an oblivion, to a level beyond human. My compartment, recycled and reclaimed to the dust from where I was formed.

They still and won't be able to recover my body. My killer ensured that wasn't going to foil into her treacherous plans. Treacherous, such a strong word as unfortunately, the killer didn't stop. Before my death, there were two others. Each of a different gender, race, background, memory, aspiration, dreams, life. What tales could they have told me before stepping into her unholy graces? Was she alluring to convince pitiful souls like myself to come into her web? What words did she say to pull them in? What enticed them to resist their instincts to come there? I should have asked myself the same thing prior to my death. If I would have known before then, walking into my death was easier as opening the door to a family member or a stranger. Not everyone who answers is looking for a chat. Motives are motives and for sure, her motives were clear as day as she murdered me in cold blood.

What is damning that a week after my death (or shall I say my disappearance), a Japanese publishing company approved my rough copies of my once upcoming  _name_. Ironically, the story was about a character who had a meeting with death. Both were sitting in a coffeehouse, trapped between two worlds: the physical realm and the spiritual realm.  _Ryuk_ was the name of the coffeehouse of the split world and both parties engaged in debates on the protagonist's reasoning of sparing his life. He had charts, documents, topics that contributed for his reason of living. Death didn't factored nor care of those supporting evidence. His nature alone was to do the deed of the inevitable. Such an interesting subject, I may add.

It is very unfortunate it will be never finished. I am grateful for the publishing company to release my materials about a year after. They were rough sketches, but they influenced many others to draw in my wake. "A Tribute of the Unrisen Artist," was the topic of that magazine. It still brings a tear to my eyes of my loved ones who were interviewed and talked about my life. I can hear, smell, taste the anguished voice of my best friend, Clyde. I can feel the tightening fist of sunken tears, managing to fight the pain from my girlfriend, Ronnie Anne. Lucy took it rough. She never wanted her birthday celebrated on that date again. She told interviewers that seeing me fade away questioned her on if she wanted to join me in the afterlife.

Among those who took it the hardest, it was Luna. However, I will share that for another time.

As you may know, my killer didn't take much effort in finding me. In fact, she was quite friendly to the neighbors on Franklin Ave. My mother loved her garden. My killer had such a green thumb. Very fortunate of her wearing her gloves. I would be cautious if they were covered in blood as well. My killer had fooled everyone on that street, that neighborhood, that town. She was very unsuspecting. So much trust was put onto her that anybody would leave their children under her care.

Behind those caring eyes, behind those soft, gentle hands, behind those soft, gentle words were the hands of a killer. The tightening grip her hands coiling around my neck, like a snake taking care of its prey. Her eyes were fiery red as her flushed cheeks, her red lipstick, and the pain I was feeling when I was entrapped that day.

My mother trusted her. My father admired her. My sisters thought she was amazing. I thought she was amazing. I wouldn't be a liar if I didn't have a crush on the silent beauty.

I am sorry, the silent killer.

Nobody really knows the troubles unfolded that fateful evening on the way home from school. Nobody really knows what can happen when you are alone or with others, matter-of-factly. It was the usual day after school. School was concluded for the week, I replaced my academic duties in exchange for fun-filled activities, and I was walking home where video games and comic books were to be tending for my love and care. The usual, the norm. What more can I say of my quaint life? Nothing more, nothing less.

Nobody really knows.

Nobody knew of the inclement weather occurring that afternoon. A massive cold front heading south from our neighbors of the North. I told my sisters I had to stay behind. Clyde and I were working on our finishing touches of the comic we were submitting for the local art festival. Our teacher, Mrs. Aoyama, was gracious enough to use her studio for our work. We have done it before. Many, many times. Much of our precious time between friends in our works of art were in that studio. We were a duo. Excuse me, a trio for Ronnie Anne made appearances in the studio as well. She wasn't much of an artist. More of a distraction, but that was my Ronnie Anne. Clyde called it ranting, I called her a consulting artist. Much of my work came from her mouth. A vocalist she was and a mouthpiece she is. I can still taste her orange soda bubblegum she slid into my mouth when we kissed on the counter in the art room. Her chapped lips scrapping my lips. My loins became hungry, knowing of what it desired, craved. She wanted more, but I told her another time.

If I knew death was lurking around that corner, I should have taken her on that offer. A parting gift, a penance, if you will for her bereavement. It would have been such a consolation. If death would have given me more time, I wouldn't use a condom. I am sorry, but my undying love for her was beyond greater than just sex. Ronnie Anne was and still is my anchor.

Now, she is stuck at the bottom of the ocean. That boat is nowhere to be found.

It was an all-call on the intercom, warning the remaining students in the building of the inclement weather. School was to be immediately closed. Out of the cords the deities designed for me, two of them displayed a chance of living. They were cut when I turned down Clyde's request for a ride home; and when Ronnie Anne's mother pulled her van aside to pick me up, I, too, turned it down.

"I am okay, Mrs. Santiago. My house is around the way," I told her with such a relaxed voice. Her eyes glued to me, knowing she wanted me to get into the car. She wanted more of me. She was more clingy than usual. Even death gives a inch to those who once acquainted with it.

I was about a block or two from my street. I rubbed my hands as dwindling snowflakes danced to the street. It touches my cheek with such a cool caress. It was very picturesque, a reminder of our upcoming winter. I took it in open arms, humming a tune of its arrival. It was nothing usual of being in the Midwest. Things change and then it repeats.

Can you say the same thing about taking a life? Nobody really knows.

Nobody really knew the circumstances as I decided to take the shortcut to my house. Nothing out of the ordinary. I breathed through my nose as I made the steps onto the dirt paved alleyway. I knew the neighbors for their children walked the very path to school on such winter days like this.

It was the light scent of her perfume that caught my attention.

My name was called into the air like a siren to a sailor into the lone ocean. A savory voice, edible to those who crave and seek it. Enticing, entrancing, the familiar caught my attention as I turned to the yard beside me.

"Oi!" Her trademark introduction whenever she sees people of familiarity. She had a shovel in her hand. Her green gloves stuck out to me as it didn't match the whiteness of the now falling snow. "What are you doing out here alone, Loud." Another thing about her. She used my surname before getting comfortable enough to use my first name.

"Oh, hey, Ms. Young," I said to her pleasantly. "I am just returning home from school. I am about to head to the house."

She put the shovel into the dirt. She was wearing a heavy leather jacket. It looked very expensive, but it was very strange on why wear such an item when doing garden work? It looked like the kind of jacket that belonged on dates. And that was the thing.

I think I haven't seen her with a man or even a woman. She was a beautiful woman; nimble as a sheep. Looking at it now, she was a black sheep roaming with a pack of wolves. Never underestimate the softness of a fragile creatures. Like everything of a species, there is a breaking point and many are prone to bite.

"It is very late, child," she tells me. "You need to head home before you catch a cold." She continues to walk. Unlike my neighbors who have wooden fences, hers was gated. I hear her making tracks as she made her way to the gate. She opened the gate and made her way to my direction.

"I am, Ms. Young," I said as I wiped the snot from my nose. "I am going to head there right now. I just caught up at school is all."

She put her hands on her hips. "That's right, Lincoln. You were a comic book artist, correct?"

"More like aspiring artist. I am in no way of that talent yet," I told her casually.

"Nonsense, Lincoln," she told me. "I knew when you displayed your work to me, I saw talent in you, dear."

In the past, I have been to her house. The last time I came was in the summer. She was the only neighbor with a pool on her block. We had a Neighborhood Block Party and that summer, she was the host. The entire family, along with the neighborhood, attend the soiree in her backyard. Music, food, and camaraderie filled the moist air. My sisters took advantage of the swimming pool. I, for one, kicked back at the table, watching my sisters swim. I was too consumed on my drawings to play. I was intent on producing my  _name,_ therefore no time for fun, at the time.

She played the role of host quite well. She made drinks, she greeted nicely, everything to keep herself as the friendly neighbor. What I didn't tell my parents was that she eyed me every other minute. She observe me. It was like a photographer examining their subject. Knowing the purpose, the plan, the next move. Click, flash, save, repeat.

"Thank you," I told her. "I take pride in my work. Something I can't help."

She shook her head. "I couldn't agree more, Lincoln. A child such as yourself has great things for your future. I am delighted to be in your presence."

I blushed, flustered at the compliment. I nodded to her as a goodbye so I could make my way to my house. As I make my direction, she stood in the way. This time, her perfume impacted my nostrils.

She storked her long chestnut hair. "Say, Lincoln. If you don't mind, there is something I wanted you to see," she told me. She smiled, averting her sights from me. It was as if she was trying to display embarrassment. A nice ploy to trick me. Well played, Ms. Young, well played.

Ms. Young was an avid comic collector. Her comic collection exceeded beyond mine. Before making the United States her permanent residence, she was a traveller. She explored throughout the world. Great Britain, her native South Korea, Japan, Australia, Africa, New Zealand, and other countries. She was formed of the manga and definitely, the manwha of her country. She had a library in her basement. I have seen it once. And that was on the same night at the block party.

She slid the patio door to allow entry. It felt good embracing the warmth. She closed it behind me. She was shaking herself off. She may have been in the cold for awhile, or she was playing the role of neighbor very well. She asked for my jacket and I allowed her to take it. She told me that it wouldn't be too long. She wanted to show her collection. She knew of my aspiring career and she wanted to give me some material to further my career. It felt good to have that support from her.

My parents didn't share that same passion.  _LIncoln, as much you enjoy this hobby. Do you think it is important to find a stable career? Lincoln, jobs like that are a dime-a-dozen. I want you to find something that is going to help you for your future. There is nothing wrong in having a passion for it, but think of the what if's._

So, it compelled me for Ms. Young to praise me and encourage me to continue my art. She had amazing comics that were inspiring me. If I would've known that the basement was the place of my demise, I would've valued my parents' advice.

My tenacity was my downfall.

She reminded me of holding on to the rails for they were rickety. These stairs stood attest of time for they existed before I was a twinkle in my father's eye. She was grateful of turning on the lights so I could see clearly into the trap. Upon entry to the basement, I was quite amazed of being reintroduce into her astounding collection.

Her basement was a headquarters to an artist. She had an drawing studio, bookshelves in all corners filled with comics, and a desk. It made me question the materials that Mrs. Aoyama allowed Clyde and me to use. This was an amateur's paradise.

Or so I thought.

"Have you seat." Her kempt smile pointed to the sofa in front of me. I checked my phone. I didn't want to stay too long. My parents knew of my after school duty. I made it in my mind to give her twenty minutes. I sat at the couch.

I saw Ms. Young dusted off her skirt and scratching through her stocking. She hummed a tune. Greensleeves, I believe. She pulled a comic from her shelf and return to the couch.

"If I remember correctly, you told me at the party you were looking for something abstract," she handed the book to me. She sat next to me to open the comic. We flipped through a few pages together. The comic she displayed was worthy for more of my material. It was everything I needed. It was great. I wanted to borrow it.

"This is great, Ms. Young." My smile was confirmation. I closed the book. It was the moment that I wanted to leave. I would have borrowed the book for a few days and then return it to the owner.

Ms. Young had other plans.

"Stay a little. I want to make sure if you are really okay with this," she said. "You kids are so ready to go without even checking out the thing." She stood up and walked to the mini-fridge across from the bookshelf. "I don't have any soda, but would a glass of tea do?"

I really wanted to go home, but I didn't want to be rude. She was gracious enough of borrowing her book. The least I could do is to stay for one drink.

"Sure," I tell her. She grabbed a plastic cup and poured the tea into the glass. She poured a glass for herself and took a seat beside me.

"Cheers," she said with the cup in hand.

"For what," I questioned.

"Being avid readers, artist, neighbors. Something good," she said with a bit of humor. I toasted with her and consumed my drink. It wasn't that bad. Too much sugar, in my opinion.

I ingested my drink quickly as she gave to me. "Thank you for the drink, Ms. Young." I stood up, holding on to her book. "As much as I enjoy this stay, I really have to go."

Her face furrowed as if I have insulted her. Her hands trembled, holding on the hems of the skirt. "So, that how it is. You just come in, take what you can get and leave."

I was taken aback, didn't expect such a tone coming from her voice. "No, ma'am. It isn't like that. I mean, my parents. T-t-they must be worried."

"What about me," she interjected. "Do you think I don't have feelings." She peered closer to me. She scent was getting much acquainted with my nose. "Do you understand how much this means to me for someone to be here, share my comics. I don't do this for everybody."

A shiver fell down my spine. I was becoming pale. "Yes ma'am. I am very grateful. I still have to go. I can come back when it is not as bad out there." I stood up and nodded my head. I made my way for the stairs, but felt the strong grips of her tightening my arm.

"You're hurting me," I told her.

"Nowhere near where my feelings reside," she told me.

"Please, Ms. Young. You are scaring me."

"Not as scary for punishing boys who don't follow directions."

"What are you talking about?"

She let out a slight smirk. "You see, Lincoln." She still had my arm tightly wrapped with her hands. "I have seen you often. I see you come and go as you pleased." She narrowed her eyes. "How are things with you and Ronnie Anne?"

_What about Ronnie Anne?_

I felt her nose trailing behind my back, stopping at my shoulders. "Tell me, Lincoln," she said as she basked more into my scent. "Are you a virgin?"

_Why does that matter?_

I told her I was. What Ronnie Anne and I do is none of her business.

"Liar," she said angrily. "I know what little whores do to confused boys like you."

Her grip was getting tighter.

"Take off your clothes."

"What?"

"Take off your clothes, damn it," she said venomously. Any warmth and love left of Ms. Young faded away. "I will check for myself if you are."

"Ms. Young, this is too much," I told her while struggling to get loose. "I don't like this. I want to go home."

"You aren't going anywhere," she said with absoluteness. "I am going to see if you are pure." She grabbed my shirt. "Now take off your damn clothes. I am not going to say it again."

I stood in confusion. I paused as I was lost. Still registering the situation, I didn't pay attention to the knife she got from her skirt pocket. She traced it along my neck. I whimpered, she smiled. "Now, good boys are do what they are told." She trailed the knife to my nipple. "Right?"

I shivered as I nodded to her. I whimpered as I took off my clothes. I removed everything with the exception of my boxers. She grabbed my clothes and tossed them aside.

"I smell a boy." With the knife in her hand, she pressed her lips against mine. I tasted tea, other contents that were salty to the taste. She pressed that knife to my neck as my tongue and her tongue performed a dance. She broke the kiss, licking her lips in the process.

"A woman's kiss," she barked loudly. She didn't stop there. She put her hands around my boxers and pulled them down. "Now, let me have a taste of this manhood."

She chuckled, pushing me down to the cold concrete floor.

"Please, Ms. Young," I begged. Those words didn't reach her as she made her way to forcefully pleasure me. It didn't feel good. My stomach was turning ill. Tears was escaping my eyes. I extended my hands, forcing and prying her off of me. I gnashing my teeth, biting my lips in the process. I began crying for my mother.

"Mommy," she questioned. "Mommy can't save you, dear. You belong to me.  _ **You are my man now**_."

She took my boxers and put it in my mouth to cover my muffled screams. I looked into the eyes of my captive, putting her fingers to her lips, enticing my silence.

"If you are calm, I promise you, you will feel good things." I felt her wet lips trailing on my stomach and where my manhood was located. I closed my eyes as my pleads weren't going anywhere. My troubles were far from over. For it was her turn to complete it. She took off her clothes. In an instant, there was nothing but her in her nakedness.

"Let my body ensure if you are pure," she purred to me.

I whispered a prayer as she took me inside of her. Ms. Young pressed her body on me. She grunted and moaned into the pleasure as she forcefully made me have sex with her. To ensure I wouldn't resist, she intertwined her hands, forcing me to subdue myself into the pleasure. She grunted, she moaned. She grunted, she moaned. She laughed, she called my name in such a haughty tone.

She kept going until she told me she was climaxing.

We did it at the same time.

Her sweat dripped on my skin like the snowflake did on the way to her. Just like the snowflake, her sweat was cold.

She took my boxers from my mouth and gave me another kiss. Her hand gripping my hair as I tasted her lips.

The final kiss I will ever have into my lifetime.

"Let me ask you something, Lincoln?" She retrieved the knife and put it around my neck. "Do you think I am beautiful?"

Even as I whimpered, I told her yes.

"Do you think I am sexy?"

"Yes!"

"Do you think I can be a wonderful mother?"

"Yes."

"Do you mind if I carried your seed?"

"Yes!"

"One more thing: do you love me?"

She stood over me in her nakedness. This wasn't the same Ms. Young from earlier, the smiling friendly neighbor.

"Do you love me?"

I told her yes.

She extended herself in open arms. "I love you, too, Lincoln." She blew a kiss and throbbed the knife into my chest.

Thirteen shots to the chest.

Nobody really knows the final moments before you die. It is like opening a door and stepping out. It is like opening a door to a family member or a stranger. When all said and done, I embraced death in its wholesome arms.

Blood spilled through my body as she shouted "I love you" repeatedly until I was no more. Alas, when all said and done, I embraced death in its wholesome arms; taking away any other thing to worry, to protest, to excite, to plan. Anything!


	2. My Personal Heaven

Cassandra is the first person I have met in this level beyond human. That is real name and prefers not to be called by that name. Her name derived from her mother's name, Cassandra, but they have called her San. She wanted me to call her Granny. Granny? Quite strange for a girl who is near my age. She doesn't look like a grandmother. Her wrinkleless ivory skin doesn't appear to be frail and tired. Her candid features doesn't displays any features of being an old woman. She puts her fingers to my lips, enticing me that I am talking too much. She closes my eyes and displays the visuals of why her name is her name.

Cassandra grew up in the rural Mississippi Delta. She was one of twelve children. At the age of fourteen, she was an aunt and her siblings have yet to turn eighteen. Her mother worked in a town two hours away, unabling to take care of her and her siblings. She was left in the care of her great-grandmother for her grandmother didn't even give her or her siblings a passing thought. It was through her great-grandmother that raised her to the best of her abilities, in a sense of how she was raised in the era of sharecropping in the latter half of the twentieth century.

Despite her flawless, bedeviling smile she harvested, there is such an obtuse life she hidden within her. She hasn't explained why she was called Granny. She told me to read into her thoughts and the proof would be revealed within.

Education wasn't a primary factor into her household. Immediately after school she was in the care of taking care of her siblings and her cousins. They lived in a trailer on the weekdays. The weekends were back in their mother's corrugated shack. She didn't like going to the shack for their were many strange bedfellows residing with her. They were very fond of the nubile teen for they, too, mentioned how smooth her skin was. Many, many times the teen had that mentioned whenever the company of her mother entered her room in the darkness of night.

A tear wants to escape, but she held it, allowing it to come on her finger. It quickly dissolves. She explains that she wasn't yet finished. She let out a smile, telling how natural it is for tears to escape. She tells me that where her great-grandmother lived, they didn't have any running water. Every other day, she and her great-grandmother travelled by car to the local jailhouse. Fourteen miles, the women came with buckets to fill their water for the residence. One lone house in the creaks of a sewer, ready for the girls to use to take care of their needs. Her great-grandmother sitting in the car, waving her fan because of the sweltering heat and no air conditioning. Granny, pulling bucket after buckets to the concrete. Her bare soles touching the hot pavement to get the water. She purposefully filled the water to provide for her family. Forgive her if some water dropped on her feet to relieve the aches, she grins to me.

She returned home. Her brothers come to help her while her great-grandmother went inside and prepared for dinner. Granny, tending to her aching soles, especially when she got sores and cuts from the amount of rocks. She prayed to not step on glass.

Granny tells me that she is to watch over me as I am transitioned into the level beyond human. I ask her if this is heaven. She shakes her head, but can't tell if that it is a "yes" or a "no."

"Heaven is a representation of your prospective," she tells me. "If your heaven is based on the God-Jesus concept, then it is there. If not, than maybe it is through Muhammad." She rubs her arm. "What I am trying to tell you is that you are in a position that unables to pinpoint your destination."

"Like purgatory," I question to her.

"In a sense, but that isn't my job to explain or to tell," she says. "My job is to get you comfortable as possible before we can pinpoint your place. There are certain things down there that isn't yet finished with you."

"I am confused. So, this isn't heaven, but you just…." She stops, giving me a frown that reminds me much of Lori whenever I question her logic.

"What I am saying is to be comfortable and just relax for the time being." Granny takes me by the hand. "Come on, I will show you where you are staying."

We continue walking in this strange paradigm I am going to call my personal heaven. I know I am in a level beyond human, but it captivates me on how much my personal heaven is transitioning. Throughout my walk, I picture my neighborhood and how everything is supposed to be. No longer am I walking in blinded light, but instead walking on Franklin Avenue. I am recognizing the suburban landscape. The identical two-story homes with a single driveway. A magnolia or oak tree on every other home. Or that one bike a child forgets in front of their house. A somber feeling enters, giving me something to think.

Giving me something to dream.

Granny returns to the story of her troubled life. She tells me she find comfort in taking care of elderly citizens. One field trip to the "nursery home" gave her aspiration of being a nurse. She empathized them for their helplessness, their loneliness, and their wants of being accepted in their later years. They were the forgotten, the misbegotten. It was everything that restored the faith in Granny's life.

Granny spent her early years of high school catering to the elderly. So much so, she acquired help from her teenage aunt to get her away from the desolate Delta living. Thanks to a slip of paper, she was removed from those household and relocated to Memphis. Although she remained poor, she felt rich in the sense of regaining her freedom. No longer chained to condoning of housework, babysit, and serving as a lady of the night for her mother's company. She had a purpose. Every day after school, she walked two miles from her high school to the nursing home volunteering. Her smile brightening anyone who dared enter the facility. She was a personal favorite. Though she had troubles of her past hovering over her, her smile overlooked anything. Even if she had her difficulties of reading, she still read to them. It didn't matter for the errors. They were grateful of her company.

She takes me to a place that brings me comfort. A place where my life began.

My home.

I drop to my knees as I see the very thing that is making my cheeks swell, a lump in my throat, and the urge to bust and scream to the family members.

"I am home."

Silence, nothing but my voice wavering into the silence.

I am not home. I am not in the comfort of my parents. I am not in the hands of my sisters. I am not a pain, but I still see the scars. I am still at the level beyond human. My personal heaven.

I walk to the porch where I have spent many, many days. I put my hand where the loose floorboard exist. What should have been there is my latest edition of  _Ace Savvy_. I have kept it there for safekeeping. It could have been in my room, but why make a task unadventurous?

I put it aside. Granny comes and join me. "Your upbringing is quite different." She inhales. "Your air is quite clearer than mine. Your environment is safe." She turns to me. "You are quite loved. I can see it on your face. I can see it everywhere. Your family is missing you."

"You can tell?"

"I am your mentor. I am aware of the file that is given to me." She returns to looking at the tree. "A tree was something I always wanted as a kid." She let out a smile. "I wanted a treehouse. I wanted a fort. A place where no boys were allowed. I can be free and the world was my crawfish."

"Should it be an oyster?"

"Hey, I am from the South. Also, have your own concept, mister." She taps my shoulder.

"If you are Southern, then should you have an accent?"

She frowned. "This is my personal heaven. My accent is without flaws. I didn't talk like this when I lived there."

She taps me once again for interrupting her story. I stop to listen.

"The land was bare. The nearest we had was cotton. Cotton was the king of the Delta, the king of Mississippi." She scoffed. "I hated cotton. I couldn't forget the time when I saw my great-grandmother brought a branch from the trunk. She got her shovel and dug deep. She put the branch in the ground and poured some water." She turns to Lincoln. "She maybe thought it would grow."

She lifts her neck. My eyes widen. "I was always fascinated with trees. It's color, beauty, changes, everything. I didn't expect it to also lead to my death." She closes her eyes. "Love can be the most tranquil thing a person may experience, Lincoln." She sighs. "But love can be hatred as well. Others? You? Or in this case, myself."

She committed suicide on her sixteenth birthday. Love was the motive. As she sat in front of a tree on a rainy night. She held two pieces of paper in her hand. One was a suicide note and the other was a pregnancy test.

"Lincoln, I know you want to cry for me, but don't," responds Granny as she wipes her tears. "Crying was such a sin back home that it hurts. We vented in different ways, becoming numb. I know in your heart, you are a bleeder. You care like I did. Probably why I was assigned to watch over you."

She gives me a key. I swallow as it looks identical to my house key. "This is your heaven, Lincoln. Choose your heaven on how it should be." She takes a breath. "It is not home. You won't find your parents or your sisters. I can promise you that everything is left how you want it."

She stands up and dust herself off. She walks a few paces before turning around. "If you need anything, just let me and I can assist."

"Matter-of-factly, I do." I stand up and walk down the stairs. "Am I able to see my family."

"Of course," she smiles. "You have the ability to watch over people."

"Even their whole lives?"

"Yes, sir. Look at it as watching television. You can watch whoever you want." She walks down the street. I call her name once more. "Why are you called Granny?"

She pauses. "Because of my wisdom. And because of my bickering and slowness as a kid. Farewell."

She disappears mysteriously as she appeared. I take short breaths, knowing I am going to enter a room without my family.

* * *

It was ten o'clock on that Friday evening when Luna received a phone call from her mother. She was having music practice with Sam and her crew. Because of the weather, she decided to stay over with her girlfriend until the weather died down. She was sitting in the garage with her members, listening to music and smoking marijuana when she heard the call.

She jumped from Sam's lap, didn't want the background noise interrupting the call. She was supposedly studying at the library at the community college for an upcoming exam. She walked into the laundry room when she answered the call.

"Hey, mom," said Luna. "I was getting ready to…"

"Luna," said her mother. Her tone was concerning for it was very raspy, as if she has been crying. "I wanted to know if you have seen Lincoln?"

She rubbed her eyes, looking at the time on her cell phone. "Lincoln isn't at home? Have you checked Clyde's or Ronnie Anne's?"

"None of them has seen them," replied her mother panickedly. "Clyde told me that they went their separate ways when school ended. Ronnie Anne even offered him a ride and he turned it down. They both said the last time they saw him was at school and that was hours ago."

Luna gripped the phone. She was trying not to panic. Luna believed for me to be the very resourceful, responsible type. She knew I wouldn't go anywhere without informing anyone. Unless, it was something she and I did as an uniformed decision.

Luna and I are very close.

Luna and I were very close.

"Mom, maybe he went to Rocky's or some other friends," she tried telling her mother. "Have you called the police?"

"Yes," she exclaimed. "Because of his age, they think he is a runaway. I can't file anything until twenty fours have been reached." She began to panic. "That is too long to bare, Luna. It is ten o'clock at night. It is cold and a blizzard is coming! Where are you?"

"I am still at S...library," said Luna.

"Please come home, dear," screamed her mother. "Dad and Lori are walking the neighborhood. One of the neighbors is searching as well. Please come home, darling."

"I will, I will," she told her mother. "I will be on my way."

Luna hang up the phone and tucked in her lip. She hoped that I was playing a game. She hoped that I was somewhere safe. She went and called for me.

_Hi, this is Lincoln. I am unable to answer because I am either drawing or sleeping. Leave me a message._

She called again.

_Hi, this is Lincoln. I am unable to answer because I am either drawing or sleeping. Leave me a message._

She called again.

_Hi, this is Lincoln. I am unable to answer because I am either drawing or sleeping. Leave me a message._

She gave up on the fifteenth call.


	3. Depart

It has been a couple days since I have been in my personal heaven, or the level beyond human. It doesn't take long to get myself adjusted to my  _eternal_ lifestyle. It is not as I bad as I thought it will be for I am learning to take a perspective on this. I think back to the days when my sisters, Lana and Lola, were in Girl Scouts. Taking chances, making mistakes, and unraveling the unknown. It was the thirst for adventure that excited the duo. Of course, I will never forget the time Clyde and I sneaked into their camp in order to have a taste of their world famous cookies. Unfortunately, we did not succeed in that venture, but my sisters saved a box for us. We took our time, promising one another to take a cookie a day, finishing it off with milk until it was no more. I think we have spent over two weeks finishing the box. Now, I can have the cookies as much as I want. I can eat box after box without getting full. Why not? This was my personal heaven. My mentor, Granny, told me I can be how I want to be. I can make myself tall, short, fat, skinny, and the like. However, I prefer being myself. Granny laughed when I tried to be muscular around her. She isn't a fan of those types. Or at least anymore.

I have turned the living room into a game room. Every single console on the face of mankind is now at my choosing. I can go from the 2-bit styles of the eighties to the multi-dimensional graphics of today. My former bedroom is now a library where I keep an archive of my  _Ace Savvy_ comics and an abundance of comic books and manga known to man. Even the ones that have yet to be created was in my collection. Granny told me to be mindful for you don't want to get carried away. There were consequences on the overdoing of heaven's dynamics.

It is just that I am trying to find solace in this permanent oasis. Making the best of what I have. I mean, eating grilled cheese with jelly sandwiches for breakfast. I can eat ice cream with hot peppers for dinner. I can ride my bike on the roof and fall without the slightest scratch. I have the ability to dance and sing in a falsetto. I think it is safe to admit that I was secretly a fan of El DeBarge or any DeBarge members. I always wanted a voice like his or Bobby. I remembered trying to use that voice in front of Ronnie Anne one day. She snorted until I saw snot coming out of her nose. She was flustered, hitting me for making her laugh that hard. In the end, that was a sign of her love.

I make an executive decision to use the flatscreen television in the living room as a source of seeing my loved ones. I haven't checked in a few days because I wanted time to adjust to this new world of mine. Also, I just don't have the stomach to see the aftermath just yet. Seeing my sister endlessly call was painful. The horrid shrieks of my mother were painful. The anguish cries of my father hollering into the blind winter's night, calling my name until he was hoarse. Lori, checking every nook and cranny of the neighborhood of my whereabouts. She checked every arcade, comic book store, coffeehouses, any place I normally frequented. It led to zero results. Not a trace to be found.

And I mean what I said. My killer took care of that two days after my death. Ms. Young didn't dispose of me yet. She kept me there on the cold concrete. She paced back and forth, scratching her head, biting her nails, screeching and hollering of the horrid mistake she had caused. But, I read into her mind. It was no mistake. She knew what she had done. It turned out that I was her target the moment I came to her home that summer.

She scanned my body every twenty minutes like clockwork. She touched my hair or grabbed my pulse. Searching for any evidence that my demise was met under her duress. She cradled my body from time to time, kissing my lifeless body. She touched my forehead, kissed my lips, and did other things to fulfill her sickening pleasure. When she knew it wouldn't be long before the cops or my family start their search of campusing the neighborhood, in the stillness of the night, she went to a hardware store to purchase an ax. Clever as she was as she went to another part of town to acquire this instrument. And I mean it when I say an instrument for the devil as idle hands like hers. And I was her plaything.

She told the manager of the hardware store that she was looking for an ax to dispose of some waste. She claimed to be a farmer from Indianapolis. The manager couldn't care if she came from the gates of hell. He didn't want a story, just buy the damn thing. From the moment she stepped into the store, she gave him the creeps.

She went to neighboring Windsor in Canada to purchase tarps, garbage bags, and among other things. Every store she went, it was the same thing: no cameras, no credit cards. She always parked several blocks away so she wouldn't be suspected. Anything of suspicion was hidden in her backpack. And the axe, she used to be part of the tennis team in high school. She didn't last long for she was kicked out when the coach was given reports of her spying on girls and boys of their dressing rooms.

Ironically, she sang one of my favorite Bobby DeBarge's songs. "I Call Your Name" was the music playing in the basement as she began her plans of discarding my body. Before she began separating my former shell, she kept reciting the words to me, as if I was listening. Of course, I can see, but it was like she wanted more of me. But what more? I am dead. She gave me one final kiss. She dragged my body on the tarp and began discarding.

It was two in the morning that Sunday when she began taking pieces of my body into the trunk of her car. Not wanting to alert the neighbors, she hoped she can make it in one trip. Thinking ahead, she covered the trunk with many layers of tarp. She triple bagged my body. She wanted assurance I wouldn't leave anybody clues. Everything was complete. She left the Royal Woods city limits and went to parts unknown to everyone. She was spreading my body to many terrains as if I was contributing something to the world. Does that make sense? It matters not for I am now nothing but waste.

Waste, senseless. I think about the things I wish I could have done before my death. I wish I would have taken Lynn's offer on being her substitute on the roller derby team. I wish I would have continued my job working with Luan. I wish I would have spent one more day with Lucy in the vents instead of drawing with Clyde and Ronnie Anne. Sigh, I can't do it any longer. And I refuse to make this personal heaven a haven of shoulda, coulda, woulda. What's done is done. It is time to adjust to my new surroundings.

Just as my family has to adjust.

What is sickening to me is how Ms. Young joined the search party that following Sunday. She was in my living room, sitting on the edge of the couch, holding on the fliers that displayed my face. She held onto the picture as if I was her true love. For a moment, I was her true love, for it takes some kind of emotion to dispel my life away. Took thirteen stabs to the chest as a matter of fact. Pardon me on this, but this bitch had the audacity to hold my mother's grieving hand, telling her how sympathetic she was on her loss. My poor mother biting her lip, refusing to accept those words, loss. Not wanting to make a fuss, she told Ms. Young that Lincoln was out there. The killer returned with "I will keep you in my prayers for your son's safe return."

That Sunday, the search party commenced. It was organized by my father and the Royal Woods Police. Neighbors, my father, Lori, and Clyde's parents scavenged the neighborhood, knocking door to door. My sisters, Lynn, Leni, Luna, and Luan along with my Pop-Pop checked other areas I may have frequented. They decide to check out Johnson's Creek to see if I could be there.

As for my other siblings and my mother, they stayed behind. My mother sat on the couch, clinging to my baby picture, which was clouded by tears. Lucy held Lily, using her as comfort for she was combating the tears. What was shocking was throughout the time, she was praying for my return.

That was the first time Lucy ever prayed to a higher power. Ever!

Clyde was told to stay behind by his parents. I knew that they didn't want him to see me if the worse were to happen. He was assigned to hold on to the walkie-talkie and keep his cell phone close if I were to call. And he did call. Many, many times. He continued calling until his battery died. He held onto the walkie-talkie until it was indented in his skin. Ronnie Anne did her own searching. She went to social media asking if anybody had seen me. She gave identification to the details. She knew me for we have explored one another. She knew me because I know her. Everything of Ronnie Anne is of me as I am of her. She got in contact with her Chicago relatives, texting her fliers of me if I were to be in the area. She was strong, combating her sadness. She kept her spirits up, hoping that I will return. She let out a smile. It was a painful smile.

_That lame-o wanted to be a runaway. Why not, Lincoln? Play your game. When that twisted joke of yours come to an end, you will be back. You will Lincoln. That lame-o!_

Those were the very words she said once more at my memorial service.

* * *

On Wednesday, five days after my disappearance, Luna was the one who answered the door. She was met by two men in matching dark peacoats. One of them displayed their badges. They were detectives. It was the beginning of the end.

"Good evening, ma'am," said one of the detectives. "I am Agent Callaghan and this is Agent Yamamoto. We are with the Royal Woods Police. Are your parents home?"

Luna was turning pale, holding on the knob. If the detectives would have touched it, then they would have felt a rattle. Luna swallowed a lump in her throat. "Mom, Dad," she said loudly. A moment later, my parents came from the kitchen. My father was holding on to a picture. My mother had her hands on a knife. She was in the middle of making dinner.

"Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Loud," said Detective Yamamoto. "Sorry to disturb you at this hour. Is there a chance we can talk with you?"

My mother gripped the knife tightly. Her face was turning pasty white. She began stammering, backing away to my father. My father kept his composure. "Sure, detectives. Come on in."

The detectives entered the living room. Luna assisted them with their coats. The detectives asked if they can talk in the kitchen. Both of my parents nodded their heads. My dad turned to Luna, for Luna saw my siblings edging over the stairway.

"Kids," said my father. "Go upstairs and chill out for a bit. It is nothing serious. Just looking for more information. He is still out there. He is still out there. He is. I know he is." Each time he kept saying that, his voice was fading away. Even he knew it was the beginning of the end.

The detectives came into the kitchen. The smell of roast and green beans and potatoes filled the room. My mother asked them for coffee or tea in which both accepted the former. My dad offered them a seat. While my mother was making coffee, the detectives went straight to business.

"First of all, we want to express our concerns about your missing son," said Det. Yamamoto. He sighed. He sighed very heavily. "However, there is something I am afraid we have to seriously discuss."

My father shook his head. "I understand. Tell me what is going on. Tell me what I need to do."

Det. Yamamoto sighed once more, cracking his knuckles. "On Monday, you gave all of the detailed information about your son. His height, his weight, his significant white hair, everything." He coughed. "Well, the thing is this. On Tuesday, we received a phone call from a precinct out in Pontiac. Well, they have found a body part."

The sound of broken glass hit the ground. My father turned to see the spilled coffee hitting the floor. My mother began panting loudly. She wanted to wail loudly, but combat it to not scared the worried sisters upstairs. My father aided her to a nearby seat. They held each other close, closer than they have ever been since the day they consummated their marriage.

"Are you sure if it is Lincoln," questioned my father.

"At this point in time, we are unsure," said Det. Callaghan. "What we do know that it was an ankle. A man who was walking his dog discovered it in a nearby dumpster. That area is normally frequented by the homeless. So, it would be no surprise that the trash were to be discarded out of the dumpster." He took another breath. "Well, inside of the garbage bag was a pair of sneakers. They were white in color."

"Oh my God, my baby," my mother screamed. This time, she did wail loud enough for my sisters to hear.

My father went along with the detectives to the police station. Meanwhile, my mother waited in the living room. She was met with my sisters. They all had a worried look on their face. Luna stood away, holding on the railing of the stairway.

"Mom," she said stammering. Her legs became wobbly. Her stomach began to churn. "Don't tell me that the ankle might be Lincoln's." Luna listened to the entire conversation.

My mother stared at the front door. It was as if my mother didn't hear that question.

"Mom," asked Luna again. This time her voice was higher pitched. "Don't tell me that ankle might be Lincoln's."

The groans and moans grow, a wave began to surge upon the Loud women.

"Mom," cried Luna.

Tears formed from my mother's swelled cheeks.

"Mom," cried Luna. "Please answer me!"

Sobbing noises were released from my mother's mouth. She screamed my name loudly into the heavens. It was well-received, Mom. It was well-received.

Luna dropped to her knees. She threw up on the stairway.

From that point, things begin to fall apart.

* * *

It took my father three days before confessing to my mother that the DNA on my sneakers matched with the DNA of my severed ankle. My father was greeted with a slap from my mother. That was the first time I have ever seen my mother laid a hand on my father or anyone.

It has been eight days since my disappearance. Excuse me, it has been eight days since my murder. No longer was this just a missing person.

My father knew the moment it spewed from Detective Callaghan's heavy tongue that this was now a homicide investigation.

I turn off the television. I, no longer, want to see anymore. I turn off the lights and went to Luna's room, or at least that is what I still call it. In my personal heaven, I still want to have my eight hours of sleep. I slip into the covers. I can remember her smell of her perfume, her shampoo, it bathes the covers as I snuggle in it.

It won't be surprising if she is doing the same. And I know. She has slept in my bed every night since I departed from this Earth.


End file.
